Mustard Gas
by drufan
Summary: Challenge response to Stealth Dragon's Hound of Hell You Cry. Why John hates the infirmary. Warning:parental death which explains everything doesn't it?


_A/N: This is in response to Stealth Dragon's why Sheppard hates the infirmary challenge in her fantabulous story Hound of Hell You Cry. Short, to the point (I hope) and a one shot. Enjoy!_

_Warning: This story contains a parental death._

_Disclaimer: I make no money from doing this. I do not own any of the characters. The show remains the property of the man. All hail the man._

Mustard Gas

Cancer

Or

How I Learned to Hate the Infirmary in One Easy Step

By Lt. Col. John Sheppard

Personal Journal

It all started back when I found out the difference between shit and Shinola. The patronizing attempts at comfort from adults, who really should have known better, clued me in. Strangers, family and friends leveled insipid platitudes like, "When your Mom's feeling better…"-- and-- "It's going to be OK."

With that smell so overwhelming in the cold hallway…she wasn't and it wasn't.

It seems the nose has a direct link with memories and takes you there without permission.

At first, I watched her waste away in a hospital bed in our living room. My Dad carried on as if she had a cold-- a _take a couple of Tylenol and you'll feel better _kind of sentiment. So deluded by his strict belief that what he said went, he never allowed for the possibility of failure. He never allowed that sometimes it was just time, even if it was not the easiest choice to make.

"You _will _get better and you _will _do it by Christmas." Not an "I love you." or a supportive, "You can fight this." but a command for better health.

She listened as well as I did.

My paternal grandparents lived with us and took care of her because her parents were long dead. With them, I watched her hair fall out from treatments. I watched her puke and get just as sick from that which was supposed to make her better. I watched her slip away little by little each day.

The smell of bleach and other cleansers that always accompany the sick and dying filled the house and aggravated the fine mucous membranes in my nose. The chemicals tried to mask the stench of terminal illness, but they never came close. The smell made me gag.

I hate the infirmary because I remember doctors racing around her hospital bed in the ER trying their best to save her right before Thanksgiving. It had not been her first visit there, but it would be her last. They failed and quietly and solemnly told us that all of the heroic measures they had taken would not be enough. Their efforts only saved her for a few more minutes…because an hour was too much to ask for. The smell of whatever they had used on the floor invaded my nose as I hugged her for the last time and begged her not to go…

I equate the infirmary with when Dad became a father in DNA only. It is when he shut down and completely forgot that he had other responsibilities other than work. It is when he forgot his only son existed and might need him. My grandparents had to take me so he could have some space because I reminded him of her. I never saw him say good-bye.

Rank with the scent of lemon, I walked out of the hospital without the one I loved most in the world. I hugged my grandparents and cried until my eyes stung and my lungs hurt. I wished so hard that it was my father instead of her. Then, I cried even harder at such an awful thought realizing it was the truth.

I want to escape the infirmary because one hospital visit ended in a funeral parlor and a cemetery. It ended with sitting on a pew as people paid their last respects and hugged me knowing nothing was going to be the same. It ended with standing graveside with sunny skies and birds singing to her. Only, she could never see or hear those things again. It ended with riding in the limo home while my father sat as far away from me as possible, brooding and giving me a look like he wished it was me and not her. I feared it was the truth because of my own guilt.

I hate the infirmary because, in my experience, it is where those you need, care for and love go to die. It starts the chain reaction of loss and pain. Similar events have played out more than once in my life. I've spent more time visiting or residing in hospitals than I care to count. Nothing positive usually happened for me there.

It is the smell of defeat.

It is the smell of death.

Until now.

-------------------

John looked at the screen on his PDA, then over at McKay snoring in the bed next to him, and finally at Ronon and Teyla in the beds across from him. On Atlantis, the smell still permeated everything, and it would linger in his nostrils for days.

Antiseptic, clean, safe-- it meant they had made it home.

They were all a little battered and a little bruised but getting better. Death was pushed back for one more day and he was going to mentally jeer at it. On Atlantis, this happened more often than not, and this was not the first visit, nor would it be the last. Death liked to steal a visit every once in awhile, but the infirmary was the last stand against it. Carson was a fierce warrior and a stubborn cuss.

He also used something other than lemon-scented Pine Sol. The difference was subtle but welcomed.

John thought it was time to end his morosely sentimental sermon of the past and enjoy the victory in the present. He erased the entire entry and placed the PDA on the side table. He then eased down in the bed and contentedly went to sleep--

--because tomorrow life started all over again, fresh and clean.

-------------------

_A/N: Too much angst? …maybe. Ah well, I pretty much figure it would be something traumatic from childhood so…well, there you are._

_Stealth Dragon's story had Shep's mom dying in a car accident. I took a little license. Hope that's alright._


End file.
